I drink my coffee from a grubby cup, sun and shadow all around me. The rollicking tow of emotion at rest for the moment, the cooing call of a nearby dove just enough of a marker to hold the world in place. The cat climbs the tree above me, his afternoon hunt always at least one level up. From tree limb to rooftop to the upper rail of the redwood fence he prowls his beat. The dogs and me, we keep our distance, down here in the dust and detritus.
There are clouds gathered to the north and west, the first visible conspiracies of a forecast storm, some little tincture of that prayed for rain. The skeletal fruit trees and the smug pines mostly only reveal the blue left overs of a bright and mild day. The winds have slowly begun to gather, slipped-by breezes rolling into something a bit more filled with force and fitful leanings. The pine tree creaks out its witness to physics, while faith cuts corners and gathers in the margins, ready to take all the credit. In the dry confines of this fence and foundation, I am willing to skip all the reasons.
Now the skies begin to darken, caught up in all these tides of gray. The air cools with its latest breath, like a lump of ice refused to swallow, chilling the flesh as it emanates. I can see my silhouette as I write this, all thumbs at the virtual keys. A mirror beneath all this mouthing off, a crown of pine and sky. The dog drives the cat up the fence, his attentions too wet and toothsome for the cat to endure. Every day a gift, it's always fair weather. The platitudes a starting point for such an inevitable end. All the proof pressed against my fingers. Every empty cup another story, every prophecy of rain just fables until it falls.
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